today i cut the muse loose
and a million poems with her.
like a lover dead long ago
i cannot place a stones throw of hope
in the destruction it would take to hold on to her,
i can't keep up with what i am meant to be-
so i cut the muse loose.
and i will become old and sad
and climb into bed with someone
who will except me status-quo.
my muse will never grow old will always praise my work
and become a part of my biography
that no one will get.
my poems will become silent prisoners
who i must kill.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem